I think it’s time to take a little break. I’ve been posting every day for over six months now, and it’s time to recharge the creative batteries.
I’ve got some writing projects in various stages of development that I want to work on. The self-promotional stuff is hard work, but if the books aren’t selling it’s time to move on. I’m a realist at heart. Onto the next thing(s).
So a couple of weeks off to get my writing back to where I want it.
But I’ll be around.
And the books are still available anytime.:)
Couldn’t seem to get out of Pennsylvania. I kept goin’ back to the barn and found a couple more paintings, and they was just as nice but not as big. Albagon painted a tornado that looked like a three-color Popsicle on the side of a shed, and somethin’ that looked like a Chinese owl on an outhouse just a few feet away from an abandoned Texaco garage. Continue reading “Randomness”
I coral them behind the counter where I can keep an eye on them, then lock the door. There’s a sign that says “We’re Open” and “Sorry, We’re Closed”, so I flip it over. This place is closed for the next ten minutes.
The old lady looks scared and distracted. I don’t think she’s took a breath since I walked inside. The General looks excited, like he’s thinking maybe today’s his day, his Purple Heart Day when he gets to finally take down a Commie and have his face all over the six o’clock news. The kid looks bored. He’s chewing gum slowly, like it’s his last steak meal and he’s savorin’ the meat between his jaws. Continue reading “Closed”
It don’t rain but a lick ‘less it decides to. I ‘member in Virginia drivin’ in my Daddy’s pickup how the sun would be shinin’ one minute and the next, well sir, the sky’d hang o’er the Appalachians like a gray and purple quilt and the rain would fall like it wuttin’ never gonna stop. An’ five minutes later the sky would get all soft like cotton balls and the sun would poke out fer half a minute or two. Continue reading “Virginia sky”
“There,” said Cronic, and swerved.
The father grinned, sweat pooling around his eyes and jowls, barely noticing the driver and passenger, instead admiring the ‘Bird.
Cronic skidded to a stop a couple of feet in front of the two hapless travelers, sending up a plume of gravel smoke from the rear tires. Dad nodded appreciatively, a low whistle escaping his pursed lips. “Thanks, fellas. Hell of a car you got there, son. What is it, a ’62?”
“She’s a ‘61,” said Cronic and pulled his gun like Jesse James. Dad’s face disappeared in a vapor of bone and blood, his eyebrows still arched expectantly.
*** Continue reading “There”
It has been another day and night of dusty roads. Gravel dirt and hay chaff hangs in the air. The weight of rain is oppressive; it is fat and ready to swallow the earth. I’ve spent the last three days hitchhiking, waiting for it, watching the road and the bruised face of the sky until the two become the same thing, void of horizon. I have seventeen dollars and fourteen cents in my pocket and three cans of spray paint in my backpack. They are orange, green and yellow, and I can’t think of a thing to do with them. Everything that drove me to paint has left me. Maybe I’m trying to think of an excuse, any excuse, for not turning around and heading home. Right now, I’m just wandering, sleeping in old barns and wearing the highway on my feet. The canvas has become too small and my paintings too repetitive. Whatever muse I was trying to satisfy has left me in a blur of empty footsteps. Continue reading “The weight of rain”
“Okay, ya’ll. You know the routine.” I wave my snub at the three people in the corner store in Shrewsbury. I never liked to wear stockin’s like the robbers you see on TV shows, and I don’t like those thick wool ski masks ‘cause they itch. Rubber masks ain’t no good ‘cause sometimes the eyeholes move and you don’t have no periph’ral vision. So usually I just paint my face with mud, smear it on nice and thick, and wear some Ray-Bans. Dee-Dee Martella herself wouldn’t know her own boy when I’m in my get-up. Continue reading “The routine”